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i Prologue (with
acknowledgement to GC)
When April with her sweet, sweet showers,
Conspired to hold for many hours,
The wicked wetness all at bay,
A bunch of women came to play,
Upon the red Devonian shores,
Their tale I'll tell you now, it's yours
To take and read for your delight,
And also pictures, quite a sight,
They made, these women, there were plenty,
All in all were more than twenty,
Of them came to Ilfracombe,
The budding town that was the womb,
From which was born an epic journey,
Through the lanes all green and ferny,
Devon's lush and sun-drenched land,
And so to help you understand,
I should explain they were a team,
Of cyclists of which Deb was queen,
But nary a king was to be had,
For which these women were quite glad.
For while men cycle rather fast,
They shoot their bolt and cannot last
The evening hour's important things,
So Deb would have no truck with kings,
Apart from those who would consent,
To accept her expressed intent,
That they should be the cameraman,
Or else would drive a bus or van,
Excepting one they thought a pearl
Of men, an honorary girl,
Though rather narrow in the hip,
They let Ade come upon the trip,
And also deigned to allow boys
To come and sample Devon's joys,
Of these there were but only three,
And some young girls to oversee,
These youths in case they'd run amuck,
Nor with that would our Deb have truck,
And so all told of souls alive,
I'd reckon we were twenty five,
And more plus bikes and other stuff,
I'm sure you'd say it was enough...
The following
poems were written to capture five different
photographs that didn't get taken because you never
have your camera out when you get that really
fantastic shot. They were - a horseman in a
village, a steep climb over rocks, an old railway
tunnel converted into a bike-track, a cut across
the rough to get ahead and take more photos, and
finally, a line of cyclists in the distance snaking
around a cliff path. They are not great poems, but
hopefully, they capture those five moments that the
camera missed...
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ii
Wherever
A sudden village
in a fold,
A Devon church-tower, square, stark, bold,
Not twee nor quaint, just maybe old,
Thatched whitewashed walls could not have
told...
A few snatched
moments, not much seen,
The sudden junction by the green,
Just one brief pause we took between,
Wherever going and had been...
This flock of
cyclists in mid-glide,
Hoof-sounds swift to coincide,
High-horsed, tweed-dressed out to ride,
Worlds that passed could not collide
One more image in
my mind,
Pictures of another kind,
Trying to recall, rewind,
Visions that I can't quite find.
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iii Climbing The
Rocks
Up amongst the
rocks and shale,
You really don't say THAT's the trail?
Can't come this far just to fail...
Not much further
and I fall,
Grab the bike and start to haul,
It's really not that bad at all...
Still it goes on,
on and on,
Energy and force all gone,
Each slope hides another one.
Then comes the
ironic bit,
Once you're really fit to quit,
Finished, over - that was it...
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iv
Tunnel
Down in the
tunnel where sparse dim light glows,
Only enough to just hint where it goes,
A puddle's reflection, but nothing else
shows...
Rushing on
forward, in darkness confined
Nothing to guide me, just one light behind,
Followed by voices, the blind leading
blind...
Half hearing
questions that echo around,
Whispered confusion and hollow damp sound,
Biking on blindly through underground.
Then in the end
there's a glimmer of gray,
Strengthens becoming discernible day,
Light in our sight as the darkness gives
way.
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v Cutting The
Corner
Osh gosh, there
goes Josh,
Leaves the trail to cut across,
14-year-old whirlwind boy,
He can do that, so can I...
Leave the path,
go down the hill,
No insurance, made my will,
Can't believe I'd go this fast,
Before my eyes life rushes past.
Skim in front and
now I'm back,
Next bit of the proper track,
Following a dizzy whim,
Hurtling past the river Plym...
Blasting on I
drop the bike,
Up the hillside, take a hike,
Grab the camera, point and snap
Capturing the cycling pack...
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vi
High-Cliff Trail
Snaking round the
high cliff trail,
Clinging path round bluff and bend,
Distant riders chase the grail,
Journey almost at an end...
High above the
southern seas,
Glinting helmet sunlight shines,
Evening shadows long for ease,
Far procession slowly winds.
Round the hill
and up the track,
Evening lingers to retard,
Weary, wanting to get back,
Dropping down to Admirals Hard.
Click the Pic
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vii
Epilogue
So in the end we all
must go,
Down to whatever's
there below,
Just to find out how
it feels,
Wherever we might
dip our wheels,
And when our dipping
days are through,
We move on then to
pastures new,
But cast such gloomy
thoughts away,
We'll sip and dip
for many a day,
And taste life's
pleasures while we can,
Every woman, every
man,
Pedalling onward
many a mile,
Wearing enigmatic
smiles,
Breezing forward as
we straddle,
Grasping life hard
by the saddle,
But this won't do,
so pardon me,
For far too much
philosophy,
So now I'll try hard
to recall,
The end of matters
practical...
All our bikes and
all of us,
We loaded into van
and bus,
And as night's
curtain gathered down,
We rumbled out of
Plymouth town,
Which I said to aid
this ditty,
Really Plymouth is a
city,
Though any case we
did not stay,
But hastened off
upon our way,
So time to ring this
poem's bell,
And bid you all a
kind farewell.
Andy Morley April
7th 2007
Click on the Pic
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